So life goes on from day to day. We are waiting, waiting. The little boot-maker in his shop is waiting. The tailor is waiting. The hotel staffs are waiting. The passengers on the railway platforms are waiting. On the surface life is gay and free from care; but what I may have to tell you when it comes round to my turn to write again, who can say?
THE TOP SLICE.
I.
Letter from Mrs. Gregory-Browne to Mrs. Ribbanson-Smythe.
Upper Tooting,
21st July, 1914.
My dearest Agatha,—I must tell you about an extraordinary occurrence. They were all quite respectable people, indeed most respectable. Perhaps I ought not to include Mr. Jones. He is, you know (I mention this in the strictest confidence, dearest), he is not—well, you know, he hardly belongs to our set. I cannot understand why James is so absurdly fond of him.
It was my At Home day last week and quite a lot of people, really nice people too, came in spite of the heat. The heat may have had something to do with it, but I really cannot think what it was.